Knowledge vs. Love

Every morning, after reading a chapter or two in the Bible, I flip through and read a few sporadic verses. Sometimes those verses speak to me. Sometimes they encourage. Other times they convict. This morning’s blew me away: “…But while knowledge makes us feel important, it is love that strengthens the church. Anyone who claims to know all the answers doesn’t really know very much. But the person who loves God is the one whom God recognizes.” (1 Corinthians 8:1-3) 

In this, Paul was talking about food sacrificed to idols and by church he means people, not the place some of us go on Sunday or for weddings and funerals. I specify the church thing because I never realized that before attending The Movement. 

I promise this isn’t about meat, which I don’t eat. Of course I’ve written about that, if you’re interested.

Man, I take a long time to make a point; here we go: Sometimes we get so caught up in logistics, and rules, and answers, and figuring things out that we forget just to love God and each other. I cringe hearing people spew hate and judgement in Jesus’ name or under the guise of “defending the Bible.” Seriously? Are we so arrogant to think God needs us to stick up for Him? I’m pretty sure the Creator of the Universe is solid. And even if He did need our help, hate certainly would not be the approach He would encourage. He might tell us to Love and Serve. In fact, He did.
 
The last few days I have been praying almost without ceasing because every time I think of my daughter and can’t talk to her, I pray. Lord, keep her safe. Lord, guide her steps. Lord, I’m scared. But the more vulnerable I am, the nearer to Him I draw, and the nearer He feels. This season of my life is completely out of my control. Rather than fight it, I am choosing to surrender completely, and in my surrender, God reaches out to me. I imagine Him saying, “There you are. Now we can make some progress.” 

Last week during OAA’s, my son complained every day about the stupid things he had to learn and why did it matter and algebra sucks, and why do we need to know this, and holy crap, I forgot how rough it is to be a teenager. However, in some ways I agree with him. We spend so much time trying to impart knowledge and skills to make our kids successful in this competitive world that we neglect to teach them love, compassion, and respect for others despite the fact that the latter lessons will undoubtedly serve them better in the future. I have never used Algebra a day in my life, but I interact with people every day.

So today, I’m gonna trade in knowledge for love. Instead of trying to figure people out, I’m going to encourage them unconditionally. Today, instead of making a snarky remark, I’ll speak love. Today, instead of rolling my eyes at someone’s self-congratulatory Facebook post, I will see beneath the bravado to someone striving to feel validated. I might be a complete jerk tomorrow, but I’m gonna really try not to be today 🙂

Peace out.

It’s like this and like that and like this and uh*

I recently read Crash the Chatterbox, by Steven Furtick**, about quieting inside (and outside) voices so that you can hear God’s voice. It was a great book and helped me to isolate and silence some pretty destructive voices. And through engaging with my inner voices, I learned another powerful lesson: Whatever purpose we are here to fulfill? We already have everything we need. 

For instance, God gave me an English teacher mother, above average spelling and grammar acumen, a pretty sordid childhood, and a voice with which people can identify because He intended for me to share my story. 

BUT, you knew there was gonna be a but, didn’t you? In the process of sharing my story, here is some chatter I have heard in my head and from well-intentioned friends:

You’re writing a book?

There’s nothing really special about your story.

You’re not that good of a writer.

Who would want to read your story?
Only famous people write memoirs.

What’s it gonna be about?

Who’s gonna buy it?

Your daughter is a better writer. Maybe you should have her write your story. (She IS a way better writer, but she has her own story to tell.)

You’re not good enough. You’re not interesting enough. You’re not smart enough. You’re not important enough. You’re not special enough. You’re not skinny enough. You’re not blonde enough. You’ve never been enough and you never will be enough. Those voices are so mean; good grief!

Except a funny thing happened in the midst of that though. The aforementioned book landed in my lap and told me: 

• You are doing better than you think you are. 
• You matter more than you think you do. 
• It’s less about you than you think it is.  
• God says you are enough. 
• God said He gave you everything you need. 
• God says you can.

It told me that the voices in my head were just that: Voices. I could tell to shut the @#$% up. If someone tells my kids they can’t do something, I say, “That’s their opinion, and their opinion doesn’t matter. God made you, and God says you can.” So what if the people who should have encouraged  or complimented me or believed in me didn’t. God gave me everything I need to do what He intended me to do.

Who cares if other people don’t believe my story is important? I think everyone’s story is important. We can all positively impact someone by sharing our experiences and our heart; isn’t that why we are here? To love God and to love people?

If I share my story, and one person walks away feeling less shame about her own childhood, deciding to make lemonade out of the lemons life handed her, realizing that she already possesses everything she needs to fulfill her highest purpose, then it was worth everything to reach that one person. It was worth every embarrassing story. It was worth every agonizing question I’ve ever asked and will ever answer. It was worth losing every person who will no longer make eye contact with me because they never really saw me anyway.

My sweet friends, what voices do you need to quiet today in order to hear a still small voice that speaks only love?

*Nuthin’ But a G Thang (What up, Dre)

** I think Steven Furtick is an extremely gifted pastor, speaker, writer and teacher and couldn’t care less about the size of his house or how many people got baptized at Elevation on any given Sunday.

La la la la la la, it’s a Beautiful World.

Day 9 of the Daniel fast. I’m feeling deeply cleansed–this fast has been the spiritual retreat I’ve always dreamed of taking. Here are a couple things I’ve learned:

1. Caffeine withdrawal is painful. 
2. Food is an idol in my life. 
3. I get really jumpy when I can’t eat–see #2. 
4. I no longer enjoy cooking-although I have made a lot of stuff  I pinned. 
5. Comfortably full is a foreign term.

Today, the caffeine headache and sugar cravings have passed, and the clarity has begun to settle over me. (By the way, I have not lost one pound. Today, I said, “F#$K you, scale; you ain’t bringing me down! You’re registering all the additional knowledge in my brain not fat on my thighs!” But, this fast wasn’t about the scale.) I realized that I have relied on food for far too much. Food was my comfort, relaxation, solitude, love, and so much more.

That’s how I grew up. Sick? Chicken soup. Celebration? Cake. Love? Cookies. My mom communicates in food. Still. But now, when she walks in my house with a fresh-baked plate of cookies, I smile and thank her, then I look right in their little peanut butter faces and say, “You are a cookie; you are not love.” I often say it with my mouth full of cookie, but I’m making progress. At least now I realize the cookie’s not love.

Cookies and love. Really?

When I quit smoking over a year ago, I realized that I had absolutely no coping mechanisms. Stressed? Have a cigarette. Tired? Have a cigarette. Sad? Have 100 cigarettes. There are never enough. There are never enough cookies, never enough cigarettes, never enough coffee to fill that hole inside you.

Today is my brother Chris’ birthday. He would have been 53. He died almost 25 years ago and left a big old gaping hole in my heart. A hole that I have tried to fill with so many of the wrong things. Eventually it healed as much as a human heart can heal, but not through any of my attempts to patch it together with peanut butter cookies for sure.

What I’ve mostly learned through this fast is to feel and be in each moment. To question my motives for eating. To realize that food doesn’t satisfy a deep internal craving, it simply paralyzes it for awhile. I have learned that I do have will power. And I learned–again–that when you step out in faith, God sends in a heavenly support team.

So, I don’t know if I’m gonna lose any weight, and I don’t really care. What I do know is that when you stop dulling your emotions with food or whatever your drug of choice is, the fog lifts and a beautiful world awaits.

Day 9, I gave my food addiction to God, and I’m not taking it back. Can I share something with you guys? My husband surrendered his cigarettes to God on day 1. I’m so proud of him. Would you please pray for him?

Fast On.

For 21 days, we are joining our church family in the Daniel Fast (we started Monday, so this is day 3). If you aren’t familiar, this fast involves eliminating meat, dairy, animal products, sugar, coffee, tea, leavened bread and more. You basically eat fruits, vegetables, and nuts and drink water.

Historically, people have fasted for many purposes: clarity, peace, closer relationship with God, an answer to a prayer and so forth. My fast is about surrendering deeper to God’s call on my life. I didn’t make New Year’s resolutions this year for several reasons. First, resolutions feel a lot like rules, and I don’t like rules. In fact, I have spent a good part of my life breaking them. And second, I have quit all the things I want to quit, and I don’t intend to take up any new bad habits. If I do, then I’ll rethink this next January 1st.

What I do, however, is start every day with the promise of being kinder, more patient, more compassionate. I really believe turning 40 changes you, and I feel now more than ever that I can really be in the moment. I no longer get all worked up about a stain on the carpet or a broken glass or any other sort of material loss that would have unhinged me before.

Things aren’t as important anymore. I used to want new furniture and new clothes and new stuff (we did just get a new car, but that was a necessity not a luxury), now, I am outrageously happy with what I have. My kitchen table scarred with glitter, nail polish, paint, and more. My sofa worn from three kids bouncing on it. Our house and our stuff is more than good enough.

And in that same vein, so is my body. This morning, when I looked in the mirror, instead of seeing hair that desperately needed to be washed, I saw little fingers twisting that hair to fall asleep at night. I saw the one perfect curl that falls beside my face every morning because my husband twirls it around his finger when he falls sleep. And I am enough. My unwashed, uncolored hair is good enough.

Instead of thinking what new exercise I could pin (yes, pin, someday I will actually do them, maybe) to flatten my stomach, I remembered the three times that same stomach had been stretched to outrageous proportions as my most precious gifts grew inside. My not-as-flat-as-it-once-was stomach is good enough.

I looked at the lines on my face and thought not of what new wrinkle cream would come in my Birchbox, but instead of all the experiences etched in those lines. I might have considered the wrinkle cream for minute; give me a break I’m in process. I thought of eyes that winked at my little athletes so they knew I saw their play and lips that had kissed so many boo boos and feverish heads. The face in the mirror doesn’t look the same as the face in my mind. The face in the mirror doesn’t look the same as it did 10 years ago, but it’s good enough.

In my 20’s and 30’s, I wanted to take pictures and make scrapbooks of every single moment (not that there’s anything wrong with that) but now, I just want to live in those moments. The memories are all ready captured in my heart and my mind.

So today, hungry, 15 pounds away from my goal weight, with dirty hair and a cold, I’m good enough. Good enough for my beautiful husband, my amazing little loves, my friends, and most of all for God. So, if you are looking in the mirror and seeing flaws, please stop. Look at what’s right. Be as kind to yourself as you are to your best friend. See yourself as the person who loves you the most sees you. You are more than good enough; in fact, you are wonderful, and you are loved.

Mowana, Magic, and Monday

Snow is not my deal. I don’t like to be cold, so I politely decline to make snowmen, ride sleds, ski, or ice skate. Well, I have ice skated on occasion. It’s rare. Mostly, when the kids want to play outside, it’s on Daddy. Granted, in my overachieving 20’s and and early 30’s, I suffered through these activities, but not now. My kids know I love them; I don’t have to get my toes frostbitten to prove how much.

However, this past weekend, we attended Making Room for Jesus at Camp Mowana*, and my snow perspective shifted a bit. We hiked through beautiful, picturesque, landscapes; every picture I took looked like a Christmas card. Okay, I still had frozen toes and skipped sled riding and the second hike, but for awhile, it was pretty amazing.

In those quiet, still, cold, and beautiful moments, God felt so close. It is easy to feel close to God when you remove the pressures of daily life. No tv’s, ipads, xboxes, or computers, but no one gets bored. Kids play chess, hike, color and make crafts. Moms had great conversations, Bible studies, and spent time in prayer, fellowship, and worship.

It is one of those places where God is just so near. You know? You can feel His presence. You are calm. You are centered.

The bad thing about going to those places is that then you come back home. Home to dog hair–seriously, IT’S DECEMBER! ENOUGH ALL READY. Home to migraines and tummy aches and another day off school. Home to “Are you done with your Christmas shopping yet?” I HAVEN’T EVEN STARTED. Home to whining and bickering and sickness and cooking dinner and shopping, and did I mention the freaking dog hair?

Just yesterday, I felt so calm, centered, close to God. Well, I was close to Him this morning as I yell-prayed, “Please LORD, I have so much to do. PLEASE, Lord, no more headaches. NO MORE STOMACHACHES. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE.” And God said, “No.”

But in His no, He reminded me that cleaning, working, writing, scrubbing, gifting, shopping, cooking, and stressing can wait. Stop, look around, and embrace the magic in the moments that you are forced to be still. It’s not about going away to find Jesus in a perfect, beautiful place. Sure, that’s great and wonderful, but it’s really about making room for Him in my messy house, cluttered mind, and imperfect life.

It’s about shifts in perspective. It’s about seeing the obstacles as opportunities. I didn’t make it to the gym Monday, but I got to spend the afternoon watching movies with my sweet boy. I’m not going to finish my shopping today, but I get to hold my snuggly littlest all day. I’m not going to spend as much time this holiday with my precious firstborn, but she is going to have an amazing experience on the west coast.

Today, Lord, I’m thankful for messed up plans and the magical opportunities they present. I’m thankful for the ability to see You not only in the picture perfect beauty of Mowana, but also in the messy chaotic beauty on North Park. I’m not thankful for dog hair, but I’m a work in progress. Amen.

* We are not Lutheran, but our good friends are. Also, the camp is more loving Jesus, less being Lutheran.

I’ll Do Better Next Time.

We got a hot tub a few weeks ago. It is perhaps my most favorite thing we have ever owned. Mostly because one of my most favorite things to do is nothing, as evidenced by my repeated pleas, “Can we just sit and BE?” My babies are antsy, though, so that is usually met with, “That’s BORING! Can’t we do something fun?”

There is not much you actually can do in a hot tub. Granted the kids manage to kick each other, splash, steal seats, turn off all the jets, make amazing light shows, play charades (the only mom-approved hot tub game), turn water bottles into guns and projectiles, and so forth. Occasionally, though, they sit and look at the stars or try to catch snowflakes on their tongues. Occasionally, they are able just to sit and be.

I treasure those rare moments.

When we were young and naive and had Chloe, every experience was new and fun. Parenthood was like being a kid in a candy store. Again with Peyton, even though we were older and more experienced, trucks and dirt and boy stuff was delightful in a whole new way. Now, I’ve mentioned a million times that Lily was a surprise baby. And despite my love for babies, I planned to love them from afar.

A funny thing happened though. Chloe grew up and moved away and taught me how fleeting childhood is. I am so grateful to have another little one. A couple more years of school parties, tooth fairies and Christmas magic. Chloe taught me how to be a mom. She was my guinea pig. I did so many things wrong and made so many mistakes, but she didn’t know because I was her only mom. One time I read somewhere that if you just love them enough…if you just love them enough it makes up for those mistakes. I think that’s true because she’s all grown up and she’s my best friend.

Course it could be that she’s super-forgiving, having secret intensive therapy, or writing a Mommie Dearest kind of tell-all. That’s cool too.

Anyway, I still make too many mistakes, but I believe that Peyton and Lily are blessed for the mistakes I made with Chloe. I believe all my kids are blessed for the mistakes my parents made. I believe that mistakes aren’t for making you feel guilty and inferior but for helping you learn. I believe in owning your mistakes–not just saying you’re sorry but meaning it and doing better.

It’s interesting when I consider how God answers my prayers. If I pray for patience, He gives me strife so I can learn…what? Patience. If I pray for strength, He guides me through difficult times and reminds me of the source of strength. When I pray for forgiveness, God shows me so many opportunities to give it.

As long as we are on this planet, we will make mistakes. People we love will make mistakes. Each time we have choices. Guilt or grace. Forgiveness or resentment. During this month of gratitude, I’m grateful for millions of mistakes and the opportunities they bring to do better.

It’s your party; you can cry if you want to.

On Wednesday night, I had a much needed therapeutic intervention in the form of card night with a couple girlfriends. We used to have card nights more frequently, but life gets busy, and sometimes we get so busy scheduling all the things that make us crazy we forget to schedule the things that make us happy. Card night makes me happy. Time with my friends centers me.

I’ve been on this roller coaster of forgiveness and offense the past few weeks. This week I got a reprieve. God placed some wonderful people in my path to remind me that yes, there are unkind people in my life, but I am overwhelmingly blessed by so many people with amazing hearts and beautiful spirits, who inspire me every day.

Some of these people I don’t interact with daily. Some of them I only know through social media. Some are really in my life, and I’m remiss if they don’t all ready know who they are and how much I adore them.

I felt compelled to share this because a shift in perspective reminded me that good attracts more good. When we focus on giving, loving, encouraging, and blessing others, sweetly unexpected blessings come back to us.

This week, virtual strangers poured out kindness on my family. If I hadn’t spent the last week or two analyzing flawed and toxic relationships, I don’t know if I would have appreciated such sweet gestures as much as I do today. When we are trudging through dark memories, it is hard to see the light. More than a few times, I have told my darling husband, who patiently reminds me of all our blessings, “I don’t want to see a silver lining right now; I just want to cry.”

And it is okay to cry. Sometimes, even in the midst of a million blessings, I let sadness creep in and derail me. Yes, I have three beautiful amazing kids; also, I have two dead brothers who didn’t get to know them. And even though my dad lived for 94 years, he’s not alive now, and I miss him. And while most of the time, I am positive and focus on the amazing life God gave me, I remind myself it’s okay to be sad because remembering the sadness makes the sweet moments even sweeter.

When Chloe was first in college, she was having a rough day, and I was trying to cheer her up. She said, “It’s okay, Mama. It’s just a bad day in a really good life.” My baby girl is so wise.

Anybody Got a Light?

Today, is my one year anniversary free from nicotine. I smoked more than half my life. The first time I smoked a cigarette I was 9. Yep. NINE. Two years older than my baby. I LOVED cigarettes…in fact I still do. I love the way they feel between my fingers, on my lips, the way they smell…I love them. Even now, occasionally, I will pick one of Brad’s up. Just to feel it. But I never light it.

I hated being addicted to nicotine. I didn’t smoke in the house or car, but I can remember feeling so agitated on the way home from anywhere. Anxious to get my kids in the house so that I could smoke a cigarette. I was embarrassed that I smoked too. I didn’t want anyone to know. I took great pains not to smell like smoke or smoke around anyone who wasn’t part of my inner circle. People would say, “I didn’t know you smoked!” Good! I didn’t want you to.

When I began really to put God first in my life, I realized that even He came second to cigarettes. I am not proud to admit that I had to smoke a cigarette and make coffee before I opened my Bible. God, my kids, my husband…everyone was in second place. When I took a long hard look at that and really let it sink in, I started to pray and surrender. Please take this addiction away. Please…make it easy for me to quit. Please help me to wake up and just not want to smoke.

Over the years, I tried just about everything to quit. Hypnosis, books, nicotine gum, patches, herbal remedies, spiritual healings. I quit lots of times for days, weeks, even months. But every time, I would decide that I was back in control and let myself have just one cigarette. I can just smoke when I have a drink. I can just smoke when we go out with friends. I can just smoke on Fridays. I can just smoke on the weekends until…I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t ever just have one cigarette ever ever ever again.

One year ago, on Lily’s birthday, we went to a party with our best friends. I probably smoked 100 cigarettes. The next morning I felt like there was an anvil on my chest. I didn’t want to smoke. I told Brad, “I’m gonna quit smoking today.” He said, “Okay, baby,” but he didn’t believe me. But I did.

I’m not bragging (well, except about God’s goodness and faithfulness); I know lots of people who are trying to quit something. When asked how I quit smoking, I used to say, “I just quit,” because I didn’t like people to roll their eyes at me when I said, “I prayed, and God took away my craving for nicotine.” But, that is what really happened. I woke up and said, “Help me not smoke today,” and He did. And He keeps helping me not smoke day after day.

I have been tempted, but never beyond what I could handle. On one occasion this summer, I begged Brad to give me a cigarette, but I didn’t smoke. Every day, I thank God that nicotine is no longer first in my life. Every day, I thank Him for making it easy. I never could have quit without a divine intervention because I will regrettably admit: I have no will power. Not. One. Bit.

This is the longest I have been smoke-free since the first time I smoked a cigarette 31 years ago. Not in my strength but in His…I am redeemed.

2 Corinthians 12:9-10 (NIV) But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

Peaches and Pain

It feels like fall today, which simultaneously makes me happy and sad. Happy because I love fall. Sad because winter follows, and I don’t like winter. I love so many things about fall: football, fires, pumpkin coffee, pumpkin everything, fresh apples, hoodies, snuggling under blankets. When I was little I loved going to the Harding football games with my dad. We usually left at halftime, after the bands performed,which was my favorite part. I held onto his pinky because my hands were little and his were big. We walked through an area of Warren, that most people probably wouldn’t walk through at night with their kids now, but I never felt afraid.

Yesterday, Chloe told me she missed my dad. I missed my dad too. It was funny–weird, not haha–though not really because Chloe and I are always eerily connected. Once, I woke up in the middle of the night really worried and uneasy. I prayed for about two hours and finally went back to sleep. She told me the next day that she had wandering through the streets of Pittsburgh at the time. Missing my dad is one of our few sad connections. Fortunately, Chloe hasn’t been dealt a lot of sadness since she carries so much of mine.

My bff lost her grandpa earlier this year, another dear friend lost her grandma last week, some of my closest friends lost their stepdad/father in law a month ago, a dear writer I adore and admire lost her mom yesterday, my mom lost two more friends in the last month. Often in empathizing with others, I’m drawn so far in that I relive my own sadness. A few months ago, I had a dream about my dad, and in it, he told me that my mom was going to die. I had longed to dream about my dad for quite some time, but this wasn’t exactly what I hoped for. In the dream, I wasn’t sad or upset and kind of fluctuated between dreaming and logic. Course, I guess that’s where I usually am: fluctuating between dreaming and logic.

For as long as I can remember, every time I went into my parents’ playroom, I sat on my dad’s lap. When I was little, when I was grown, when I was happy or sad. Sometimes I sat on his lap with one of my own babies on my lap. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we laughed, sometimes I cried and sometimes he did. When I was really little I used to do his hair. He sat patiently while I did. It was so hard to walk into that room after my dad wasn’t in his chair.

This morning, I ate a peach, and it reminded me of the peach trees and raspberry bushes in our yard growing up. I used to eat fruit until I was sick, coming into the house sticky and stained. My mom made delicious jam. Then one year, in an aggressive fertilization attempt gone awry, my dad killed the peach trees and the raspberry bushes. The bushes were a total loss, but the trees still grew, though they never again bore fruit. A few years ago, in a super romantic move, Brad bought me a peach tree. It died. Last week, I drove past my parents’ old house in downtown Warren, and the peach trees had been cut down. Guess I’ll stick with farm market peaches for now.

I think the point of all this is reminding and retraining myself to focus on the beauty, the memory, the what was and what is and what could and will be rather than the pain of the loss. Tomorrow isn’t promised, but part of the beauty in this life is the fleeting nature of everything we hold dear. So my sweet friends who are sad today, I am holding you close to my heart and lifting your cares to God.

Loose Connections

Last year, at this time, I was kind of waiting for my nervous breakdown to begin. Chloe was leaving for college, Lily was going to kindergarten, my mom was moving in with us, and I was turning 40.

I cried. A lot. I missed Chloe. A LOT. But life went on, as life has a way of doing, and my girls shoved off to college and kindergarten, my mom moved in, and I turned 40, but the nervous breakdown didn’t come. My precious baby boy became a teenager, and the nervous breakdown threatened again, but it didn’t come.

Recently, we spent a week in Florida celebrating my best friend’s 40th birthday, and spending time with her, I gained some perspective on 40 and life. See, my girl is a FIRECRACKER. Once, upon thinking I might have been in danger, she pulled a big knife on an even bigger guy. We were 14, and it was a kitchen knife. But the point is: She don’t play.

She is the most fun, exciting, ALIVE person I know, and if she is what 40 looks like, people will line up for that birthday. But she’s different now. Our friendship is different. She’s calm and confident. We don’t fight with people. We don’t gossip about people we don’t like. In fact, we mostly like everyone. We no longer need to go out and party to have a good time. In fact, the best times I have with her are just sitting and talking.

Similarly, my relationship with Chloe has evolved. While she still needs me to mother her in some ways, in other ways, we connect as women. Last weekend for the first time, I went shopping with both my girls, we had a great time, and no one had a meltdown.

Having such big gaps between my kids has forced me to adapt and change my mothering style to meet their unique needs. It’s hard to switch gears among parenting an adult, a teenager, and a kindergartner, and I have to try harder to listen, understand, and connect to each child at his and her level. The very few times I get it right are extremely gratifying.

Before I turned 40, I made a list of goals. While I’ve accomplished some and strive to reach more, some just don’t seem so important any more. Instead, of reaching feats, I feel guided to make deeper connections. To renew connections that have been severed for one reason or another. To replace some connections and tighten a few loose ones.

Every morning, I pray that God will lead me where He wants me to be. I pray for God to guide me, but I usually have a direction in mind. He rarely leads me in that direction. And this morning I realized that wherever I am as long as I’m loving God and loving His people, I’m right where I should be.